The Hot Spring Inn – Part 2: The Deep Bath

The blizzard came in the third week.

It started at noon, a howling white wall that blotted out the mountains. By four, the road was gone. The inn creaked in the wind. Snow drifted against the walls to the eaves. The power flickered and went out.

"We have the stove," said Toshiro, calmly. "And candles."

They spent the evening in the warm kitchen, cooking together on an old iron range. He showed her how to make soba from scratch, rolling and cutting the dough with a long thin knife. She showed him how to make bannock, a Canadian bread, in a skillet. The kitchen smelled of buckwheat and woodsmoke. They ate at the low table by candlelight, listening to the storm.

"It is the best soba I have ever had," said Carolyn.

"It is the best bannock," said Toshiro.

They laughed. It was the first time she had heard him laugh. It was a soft, surprised sound.

"I was married thirty-eight years," she said. "He died in June."

"I am sorry."

"I haven't talked about him."

"You may."

She did. He listened with his whole face. When she was done, he told her about his wife, who had died seven winters ago, and who had loved the snow and the stars. The candles guttered. The wind moaned in the eaves.

At midnight the storm eased. Toshiro rose. "The bath," he said. "It is the best time. Will you come?"

They went out together in thick robes, through the drifted snow, to the outdoor spring. The sky had cleared. Stars blazed overhead, thick and cold. The steaming water glowed pale under the lantern. They slid in, side by side, with a respectful space between them, and let out long breaths.

"Can I ask you something?" said Carolyn.

"Yes."

"Would it be improper if I moved closer?"

"No," said Toshiro, very softly.

She moved. Their shoulders touched under the warm water. He lifted a hand and rested it, lightly, against hers. The steam rose between them. The snow fell from the pines in soft slow clumps.

"May I kiss you?" she whispered.

"Yes. And if you say stop, you must stay for the spring."

"That isn't a punishment."

She kissed him, gentle and trembling, a damp hand rising to his cheek. He kissed her back with slow, wondering sweetness, tasting of barley tea and mountain air. The lantern flickered. The stars burned on.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Carolyn. "Very green."

She stayed through the spring. The inn's guestbook has a new line, in two hands: Come in winter. Stay for the snow.

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